


Cookie Caper

by gracefulally



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-17
Updated: 2006-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:00:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracefulally/pseuds/gracefulally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Christmas time, Wee!Dean learns that no one can pull a fast one on Wee!Sammy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cookie Caper

“When do I get to try it out?” Dean asked as his wide anxious eyes once again flew to the square brown box placed out of child’s reach on a high self in the cramped living room. The box contained Dean’s Christmas present: a wrist rocket.

There was a tinkling of plastic as John rummaged for another blue block in Sam’s new set of LEGOs dumped in a rainbow mound between him and Dean. “Let’s give the sun a chance to rise first, okay?” the father replied as he shot his boy a commanding smile.

“Yes, sir.”

“Dad?” a third, tiny voice crowed from the adjacent room. A floor lounging John climbed to his feet at the call and let the simple uniform stacking of plastic blocks fall back to the pile in front of Dean who already looked to be bored with the entire idea.

In the kitchen John found his confused five year-old in hand-me-down _Transformers_ pajamas holding an open bag of cookies from the nearby discount food store. The big soft chocolate chip ones were Sam’s favorite.

“Something the matter, kiddo?” A whiff of sugared dough and cheap chocolate invaded John’s senses when he lifted his youngest from the linoleum and into his arms.

The boy’s voice was quiet, like he was afraid to be overheard, as he implored, “Does Santa like my cookies?”

Laugh-lines crinkled as a reassuring dimpled-grin pulled at the father’s face. “Santa likes any cookie he can get, Sammy, even the chewy ones.”

There was a sudden knowing furrow of doubt in the son’s brow and his small voice dipped lower. “Why’d he put them back in the bag?”

“Back in the bag?” John echoed.

Sam’s sleep mussed hair bounced as he nodded sharply. “Uh huh, he put them back. I counted.”

\---

“I didn’t think he’d notice,” Dean moodily explained while he stood atop a stool to peel potatoes over the kitchen sink.

While Sam was down for a nap after his early morning wake-up frenzy for presents, Dean was helping his father prepare their modest Christmas meal of chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. John, who had found it was easier to get the boys to eat something yellow rather than green, was chopping the skinned potatoes in to chunks on the faded and stained countertop next to the sink.

“He counts everything, Dad,” Dean continued with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “He’s going to figure out it’s us soon and he won’t be happy we’re lying to him.”

There was a chuckle in John’s throat at his eldest boy’s frustration. “You could have eaten the cookies like I asked.”

Dean pulled a face and paused his methodical peeling of the spud in his hand. “No, I don’t eat those. I don’t like them. They’re soft,” the nine-year-old said in a very matter-of-fact tone. “And they’re Sammy’s. I knew he’d want to eat them even if Santa didn’t.”


End file.
